


The Youngest Rider and the Other They

by gypsyweaver



Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: COVID-19, Coronavirus, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Making an Effort (Good Omens), Multi, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Nonbinary Pollution (Good Omens), Other, Pollution POV, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), They/Them Pronouns for Pollution (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsyweaver/pseuds/gypsyweaver
Summary: “You’re not going to like it...”“Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it.”Pollution, too weak to ride, is being carried to New Orleans in Pestilence's sidecar. Their mind wanders to their youth with Pestilence and Prince Beelzebub, and what angels might feel like, inside.
Relationships: Beelzebub & Pestilence (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Pollution (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Pestilence/Pollution (Good Omens)
Series: A Tale of Crowns and Coins [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684990
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	The Youngest Rider and the Other They

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oblomov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oblomov/gifts).



> CW: referenced (and glorified) non-con/rape, weird sex (not as weird as last time), light body horror, nothing gory

Pollution was not asleep, precisely. They stayed in the twilight regions of consciousness. Slowly, they opened one pale eye and looked down at the cell phone resting in their palm. Nothing from the Others.

Well, that made sense. Pestilence was always supposed to be the first rider. The Others were probably waiting for their Callings.

In Pestilence’s sidecar, headed for New Orleans, in the vain hope that a demon (or that demon’s Archangel lover, more likely) could deliver one or both of them for what must be the Final Ride.

What, in God’s name (yes, in Her Holy Fucking Name) did the ANGELS do to earn an Apocalypse?

Pollution was far removed from angels. They knew zero angels and only one demon passing well. They did not like that demon. It wasn’t jealousy, although that might be understandable, given HOW they knew that demon. Jealousy was the realm of the insecure, and Pollution was not insecure. They’d never been jealous.

They were annoyed. Pestilence was going home--and as much as he loved them, desired them, needed them--Pollution was never his home. Home for him was a mopey demon that was chronically allergic to Pollution, and whose existence interfered with Pestilence’s rides. His home was a humorless killjoy who happened to draw the short straw for baby duty.

Duty was a lead fucking anchor and Prince Beelzebub wore it like a crown of stars.

So, Pollution was courting nap rhythm, and occasionally checking their cell phone, in the ever-so-vain hope that one of the other three had felt the Calling.

Pestilence rode, as he always did, quickly and tirelessly. He’d only been stopped once, on a long patch of empty highway near the Georgia-Florida line. That cop recognized Good Ol’ Dr. Mal from social media.

Dr. Mal was in a hurry. The plague was in New Orleans, and he had to go.

The cop understood. He believed in Dr. Mal’s cause. The cop gave them a warning, and, in exchange, he left with a new friend in his blood, and an old one as well. Pestilence gave him syphilis to go with the coronavirus. Two-for-the-price-of-one.

Fuck the police.

Pollution wanted to sink their claws into something. Wanted to rip it to shreds. Wanted to take something pure and leak poison into it until nothing good remained. They wanted to breathe in the air around a refinery and dance in acid rain and snort asbestos off a hooker’s ass. Anything, anything but riding to New Orleans.

Well, Pestilence did say that they wouldn’t like this. And he was right.

And Pollution had replied that they’d deal with it, and they would.

They felt the bike slow down.

“Babe,” they said softly, sitting up. “Where are we?”

“Just off the interstate,” he said. He was fondling that coin of his. “They’re not far now.”

Pollution didn’t respond, just nodded. They slouched back down and closed their eyes. They were not asleep, nor would they sleep. They waited, listening to their own breath as Pestilence figured out their next move.

The air was heavy with ozone and petrichlor. It almost smelled like that Archangel that Beelzebub was courting.

Pollution might be the only being that could understand that relationship, besides the people inside it. The demon needed someone to care for, and the Archangel was a thing that would always require care.

They remembered how the demon tried to care for them, even after it became obvious that proximity was harmful to Beelzebub. Even after Pollution began poisoning their insects and plants out of spite.

They remembered being small enough for Beelzebub to pick up and dandle, and how they did, even after Pollution began excreting poison that sickened them. They delighted in Beelzebub’s suffering, in watching the demon’s skin grow paler and their breath grow more rapid. They loved the chill that ran through Beelzebub’s skin, and the way that they mistook their own chill for fever in Pollution. How they’d try to use their healer’s gifts on the child, never knowing that the sickness was their own.

Pollution had no love for the Lord of the Flies. The memory of their kind hands trying to push warmth into Pollution’s extremities, trying to heal something that did not need the help--it might be heartwarming if it wasn’t so pathetic.

They’d spent a little less than ten moons in Prince Beelzebub’s care. Long enough to grow from a little child to an adolescent. Long enough to notice how Pestilence’s hair caught the setting sun, and how warm his hands were when he led them through the orchard.

The smell of the fruit trees, of the green leaves dancing in the bloody sunset light, the musk of Pestilence as he laid them down in the grass and showed them how their body worked. How each part could feel under his hands, his mouth. How to make an Effort, and that it could be anything. That first time, they’d made something like a flower, and shivered when he’d teased the petals with tongue and teeth.

He’d drawn their first climax from them, and then driven inside. Taking his pleasure there. His first time, too.

There had been many times since then. Sometimes with Pestilence, and sometimes alone. Their favorite victims were always the little badasses or the princesses. The people who thought that something protected them from the evils of the world. They loved getting them alone, hot and shivering with their need, stripped down, ready.

And then dropping something huge and prehensile from between their legs. Slick with their corruption and hungry for something clean.

Something to despoil.

If their partner for the evening wasn’t Pestilence, then Pollution wasn’t happy unless it screamed. Unless it begged. And neither Heaven nor Hell could help Pollution’s victims if they dared to be boring.

They liked the hot, raw, wetness of it. The disgust in young and handsome features when they realized that they were in the love embrace of a monster--the fear when they realized that they were trapped. The final resignation when Pollution shoved into them. That look that they all got, a sudden wisdom, when pain and pleasure emulsified within them, bubbled up and overspilled.

The weak whimpers as Pollution filled them with toxins, sickened them, whispered filth in their ears that was every bit as poisonous as their secretions. “Who would you tell? Who would believe you?” and their favorite, “You deserve this, you filthy little slut. You wanted this. You asked for this. With every pathetic moment of your sad little life.”

It was better with Pestilence, of course. Watching him heat up a young pretty, only to gag them on a cock ripe with growths and blisters--that was high entertainment! And him holding them down while Pollution ground their Effort into their face--feeling their victim’s body shudder from the force of Pestilence’s thrusts--poisoning them as he infected them, and leaving them in some shitty hotel after they’d taken everything that their victim _du jour_ could give.

That’s what they should be doing now, not navigating the Garden District, following an ancient coin to the home of Pestilence’s mentor and their feather-brained lover.

Then again, you didn’t get much purer than an angel. Pollution wondered, idly, what they felt like, inside. If they’d clench down when Pollution called them names, if the degradation turned them on.

The thought left them hot and wet. They felt the slender tongue that they’d made for Pestilence slip out of them, licking their lower lips in anticipation.

Suddenly, New Orleans seemed less unpleasant. If it was just a stop on the way to the Great Ride. The Final Ride. Even Beelzebub might be tolerable. If it was just a quick visit.

“We’re here,” Pestilence said, as the bike slowed to a stop.

The house couldn’t belong to anybody but Beelzebub. It had little to nothing in common with the cottage by the lake, but only at first glance. The colors were the same, soft blues and greys. The colors of falling water and morning light. Plants everywhere, and little decorative touches in the shape of insects.

Disgusting. The air was too clean here.

Pestilence dismounted. His riding leathers were gleaming white, unlike Pollution’s own, which were already grubby around the ankles, wrists, and neck. He drew off his helmet, and offered Pollution a hand. They took it, climbing out of the sidecar.

They slipped their helmet off and tossed it, along with their gloves, into the sidecar. Pestilence did the same. A gentle smile was playing on his lips. It was the same smile--a sad little thing--that always reminded Pollution of their moment of near triumph, millennia ago.

Beelzebub, weak and sprawled in their orchard. Bleeding from cracked lips, poisoned and sick. Shivering, in spite of the late spring warmth. Pollution held Pestilence’s hand and waited for him to finish what they’d begun.

But he’d smiled his sad smile, and took them away.

Maybe things would feel better--more correct--if he’d taken their gift. If they’d taken Beelzebub together. The Lord of the Flies was weak. Weaker than they’d ever been.

It was a gift for Pestilence to do with as he pleased. It pleased him to leave. To pack his saddlebags, and lift Pollution onto his beautiful horse and ride away.

Beelzebub oughtn’t have raised their voice at Pestilence. Oughtn’t have stuck their nose where it did not belong. Oughtn’t have thought that Pollution was a child in need of their guidance--of their protection. And really oughtn’t have tried to drive a wedge between Pestilence and Pollution.

Did they truly assume that he’d choose a dour demon Prince over Pollution?

No, Beelzebub just assumed that Pestilence would do as Beelzebub did. Or rather, didn’t do. That he’d leave Pollution as untouched and bereft as Beelzebub had left him.

They remembered the fight that preceded it. The swell of voices outside. Beelzebub alternating between screaming and sobbing at Pestilence, making mouth sounds about trust and abuse. Pestilence looking away, shame and hurt in his face.

Pollution never wanted him to feel that way. Nothing they did together was wrong or dirty. Nothing was what Beelzebub said it was.

And after, when Pestilence finally stomped off, and the orchard was quiet, they remembered walking up behind Beelzebub. Remembered wrapping their arms around the little demon prince. They smelled like the earth, like the green things.

They smelled so pure, and Pollution hated it.

“I am so sorry, child,” they had said, and their voice cracked with their pain.

That statement, the affection in it, the sweetness. The use of the diminutive, “child”. The self-righteousness. It only fuelled Pollution’s desire to destroy.

They began to secrete their poison, and felt it entering Beelzebub’s pores, pouring into their bloodstream. Felt the Prince begin to heal themself, not making a fuss over it. They never did. Pollution knew that Beelzebub didn’t want the “child” to feel bad about what they naturally were.

But the truth of things was that Pollution may have taken the form of a child, but they were as old as the world. Older than Pestilence, even. They were born from the first leavings of the first animals in Eden, and they only grew more powerful with the passage of time, and the evolution of man’s ambition. The evolution of manmade poisons.

The stupid demon didn’t realize that until it was too late. Until the toxins overwhelmed their corporation, left them weak, their lips cracked and bleeding. Shivering in the shade of their orchard and ripe for Pestilence and Pollution to take.

Pollution had retrieved Pestilence then, and showed him what they’d done. The fear in Beelzebub’s eyes as Pestilence deliberated his course of action was delicious.

In the end, he’d left, and taken Pollution with him. They rode together when they could. And sometimes, he still rode with the Lord of the Flies. Much to Pollution’s consternation. Pestilence did not seek out Pollution, but crawled to wherever Beelzebub was living when penicillin laid him low. When the silver crown suddenly belonged entirely to Pollution.

They’d felt so lost without him. Those were lean and hungry years. Until he was strong enough to sit a motorbike again, with polio ravaging the world. Even then, he was more Pollution’s pale shadow than his old self.

It was good to see him strong again, collecting his thoughts in the front garden of Beelzebub’s home. It was good to feel the heat of him, radiating through his riding leathers and into Pollution’s skin. To smell the infection dancing under his skin.

They wiped a thin dribble of ichor from under their nose as the front door opened, and Beelzebub led the Archangel out of their house. Led him by the hand, like a little child, as they’d once led Pestilence, and then Pollution.

The sky rumbled once, and the rain began to patter the roof, the trees, and Pollution. The water here smelled of the refineries upriver, and they closed their eyes and turned their face up to it, feeling the carcinogens and petrochemical byproducts coat their skin.

“Pezztilence,” the demon buzzed. “Well-met.”

“Beelzebub,” he replied.

“And you,” Beelzebub said, crisply, to Pollution. “Don’t kill anything here. You like your coffee made with unfiltered river water. I remember.”

“Alright,” Pollution said, with a shrug. They hadn’t decided if they were going to kill anything yet, but now they were looking for things to murder.

The Archangel grinned like Death himself, rictus and frozen. Pollution was wondering about angels again, fairly certain that Pestilence was going to have to promise not to hurt this one or that one in order to get where he needed to go. Pollution wondered if Beelzebub was smart enough to force the same promises from them. Oh, probably.

How dreadful. That Archangel was a big one. Looked robust enough to take a firm dicking and a lot of poison.

Pollution’s phone buzzed. They looked down. It was a message from War.

“See you soon.”

 _Finally_ , they thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Gifted to oblomov, who liked the last chapter! Thanks, friend!
> 
> Pollution is often referred to as "the rape of the land", so I see Pollution as a rapist. Pestilence is happy to lend a hand or a pustule-encrusted cock, as needed.
> 
> They're the living embodiment of poison and disease. They're not going to be nice people. 
> 
> Hope everybody is staying safe and well. These are some scary times.
> 
> I'm not even going to estimate how many chapters I have left. I just crossed 30k words, and my GF is gonna laugh at me when she finds out!
> 
> I'm not lying when I say she's supportive. She just knows my weaknesses better than me. She also knows my tendencies towards the verbose.
> 
> I didn't see any cultural references that required footnoting. Let me know if I missed anything. 
> 
> Concrit welcome! Comments and kudos keep me writing, and that's the truth!


End file.
